Mrs Barret's Tomb
by BeautifulShadesofBlue
Summary: The Lockwood & Co. crew run into some curious characters. Are they friend, or foe? Ally, or possible competition? At first, it's quite hard to tell. But with the team of investigators taking on a particularly difficult case—they'll need all the help they can get.
1. Chapter 1

The Lockwood & Co. team trudged along the marina. George sagged, and his glasses were crooked over his pudgy nose, and his hair stuck out in all directions. In other words, not much different from normal. I, myself, had sweat in all sorts of unusual places, and there was mud covering my boots and leggings all the way up to my knees. Even Lockwood radiated a sense of weariness.

We'd had to deal with a low a level Shade which had been scaring some kids, but it had taken all night, and digging for the Source in the riverside mud was about as much fun as standing South of George when he bent over. Or perhaps as fun as having an evil skull communicate with you, and then clam up the minute there's an audience.

"I need a bath," George said, which raised the eyebrows of both Lockwood and me. It _had_ been a long night.

A small tourist boat pulled in at the dock, releasing a stream of brightly colored Hawaiian shirts, sunglasses, and 'I ❤️ London' tees. It was an early summer day, and tourist season was just getting underway. But it always bewildered me as to why people would want to travel, what with Problem and all.

We veered toward the beginning of the buildings to avoid the flood of people in the marina. I looked back as the they spilled onto the dock. Two in particular made me pause. I nudged Lockwood. George walked into me and banged me on the rear with his heavy rucksack filled with ghost-hunting tools.

"Why are we stopping?" he said, cleaning his glasses on his shirt in his irritated way.

I pointed at two ladies. One was young, easily young enough to be a psychic agent, probably no older then twelve. She had big, rectangular glasses—not quite as thick-lensed as George's—that she wore high on the bridge of her nose, which was upturned and spattered with freckles, like splatters of mud. She wore baggy black cargo pants that bunched up at her ankles, giving an exhibition of her sho stature. The pockets bulged like they were full of grapefruits. Her top was an ultra-unflattering men's Hawaiian shirt covered in fluorescent flamingos, but it was obvious she had on a long-sleeve black shirt underneath that hugged her like seal-skin.

The other one was probably twenty, judging by her womanly build and the motherly way she kept checking to see if the younger one was still by her side. But her face was stuck in the awkward teen years. She had the same upturned nose, but instead of freckles, she was splotched red and purple with acne. Her wispy brown hair poofed out under the band of her shocking pink visor, looking like Albert Einstein struck by lightning. She wore a form-fitting 'I ❤️ London' tee, sporting an obnoxious rendition of Big Ben overtop a gauzy white peasant skirt. Strangely enough, as it buffeted around her legs, the skirt reminded me of a Cold Maiden standing by a dark, lonely roadside.

None of this may seem strange enough to catch my attention, but the thing that did was the fact they were carrying huge duffle-bags, much like ours, weighted down with much more than you would need for a short boat ride down the Thames. And they were following someone.

"Agents?" I said to Lockwood without looking at him.

"Maybe. Agent and adult supervisor? But I don't recognize them."

George poked his head between us. "It would be hard to recognize _anyone_ in those get-ups. Who are they following?"

They were in stealthy pursuit of a woman in her thirties who was dressed smartly in slacks and a button-down blouse. But there was something rumpled in her appearance and the way she walked in a sort of drifting, aimless way. If it wasn't broad daylight, I would've mistaken her for a Visitor. I caught sight of the front of her blouse as she passed. The top buttons were misallaided, creating a pucker of fabric with an empty button-hole over her chest.

"Let's follow them," Lockwood said. As soon as the woman and her colorfully dressed stalkers passed and were at a safe distance, Lockwood strode off in brisk pursuit. Already, the weariness of our night's task had shed from him. George and I fell into step behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

It was nearing nightfall. The ghost lamps were just flickering to life all up and down the streets. Only a few people were still out, most had scurried inside well before curfew. The young agent and her supervisor were loitering on an iron bench on the sidewalk under the light of one of the lamps, pretending (badly) to look at a map of London, but they were really looking at the hotel across the street where the woman they were following had checked in about half an hour ago.

Us? Lockwood, George, and I stood a little ways away from both the hotel and the bench, tucked around the corner of an old-fashioned hatters. Lockwood peered keenly around the corner, watching. George sighed and stepped back, looking in the dark shop window at the top-hats on bodiless mannequins.

"I'd look awfully distinguished in one of these," he said.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't think they'd go with your trousers.""Maybe you're right." He scratched himself thoughtfully in a place that I'd prefer not to mention. "Perhaps they come in plaid..."

Just then, Lockwood's voice came furtively through the dusk air. "They're on the move!"

"Finally," George said. We joined Lockwood in time to see our fake tourists scamper across the street and through the hotel doors.

The hotel was of the kind that was old and unwell kept. Instead of preserving the antique beauty of the stonework outside, it had been left to the years and the weather, leaving it chipped and crumbled. The doors were starkly modern against the beige stone, rectangle slabs of glass outlined with iron. An urn of fresh lavender sat on each side of the double doors. We pushed into the lobby.

* * *

The interior was just as shabby as the outside with worn black and white tiled floors lit by a chandelier hanging overhead. A couple once-plushy red armchairs stood around a cold gas fireplace, the logs inside were dusty. It obviously hadn't been lit in a long time. Across from that was the concierge behind his desk. A short, prematurely balding man with big mouse-like ears. He was dressed in a red polo with the hotel name embroidered on the breast.

The lobby was essentially deserted, so it was difficult to look inconspicuous, but we managed it fairly well by meandering over to the armchairs and leafing through the pamphlets on a stand touting "Must See" London sights. The young agent was standing by the desk alongside her supervisor who was talking to the concierge.

"We're trying to catch up with our Aunt, she should be staying here. Mariam Webber?" she said. Her tone was chirpy, but the timbre of her voice was surprisingly deep. She had an American accent. The young agent tapped her foot impatiently. The supervisor kicked her in the shin.

"You don't see that every day," Lockwood murmured. I glanced at him. You wouldn't even have been able to tell he was watching them closely, he seemed so engrossed with the tourism pamphlets.

The concierge looked uncertain.

"Oh! Is the kitchen still open? We'd like to bring up some sandwiches for us all the share, if that's okay."

The concierge hesitated a second, and then seemed to be overcome with avuncular feeling. He smiled warmly and said, "That should be fine. How about we have them sent up to you? Here's our menu." He handed over a piece of paper.

"Ooh, room service?" the supervisor said, brimming with youthful effervescence. "This is so glamorous!"

"You said Mariam Webber?" He typed on a clunky old computer for a second and then looked back at the pimply-faced woman. "That's room sixty-four, second floor."

"Thank you, thank you!" The supervisor waved the menu and got into the elevator with the young bored-looking agent beside her.

Lockwood abandoned the pamphlets and sashayed confidently up to the concierge, long coat flapping behind him. George and I fell into step beside him. The concierge gave a pinch-faced look of disgust at the sight of my muddy boots. Lockwood leaned over the counter and said in a confidential whisper, "We're here for a private meeting with a client. If you don't mind, we'll head straight up."

The concierge slowly peeled his eyes from my muddy feet and gazed one by one at the rapiers strapped to our hips. "Do you want me to call ahead for you? What room is it?" he said in a soft voice, even though we were the only ones in the lobby at this point. Outside, the ghost lamps were the only lights. The night had reached full dark. It was the time of Visitors.

Lockwood put out a slender hand hastily and gently touched the concierge's hand before he could grab the prehistoric-looking teLephone. Then Lockwood put a finger up to his thin lips. "Shh, this is a _confidential_ meeting. Our client doesn't want anyone else to know who he or _she_ is. It's a very delicate problem, you understand."

I never could have bluffed my way as effectively as Lockwood did, but it was just like everything he did, with cool, smooth efficiency. Even the way he moved.

The concierge nodded, with the expression of someone honored to be entrusted with even this little piece of information. "Of course," he said. "Head straight up."

* * *

The elevator dinged as we reached the second floor. It was one of those old-fashioned ones where you had to manually slide open the metal doors. We stepped into the the hall. The carpet was a dingy pattern of maroon and modern swirls. The wallpaper was a cream fleur-de-lis motif cut in half by a chipped white chair-rail. Can-lights illuminated us in harsh fluorescent brightness. We followed the room numbers to the end of the hall and turned the corner just in time to see the agent and her supervisor slip into room 64.

Once the door closed, we gathered around it. None of the doors had keycard locks. They all required a regular old key, and room sixty-four was no exception.

"They picked the lock," Lockwood said quietly. "That rodent-esque concierge didn't give them a key."

"Either that, or they coaxed it open with the menu," George said.

 _Get away._

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. "Did you hear that?" I asked the others. But I already had a hunch that the answer was no.

"Hear what?" George said, confirming my theory.

Lockwood and I met eyes. He was frowning in concentration and looking at me with a question. My psychic senses tingled. We all three looked at the door.

 _Get away from her._

The words buffeted against my mind with sudden power, not the rasping whisper from before. And along with it came a burst of light under the door. As agents, we recognized it immediately for what it was: Otherlight.

In true Lockwood & Co. fashion, we burst through the door and into the fray.


	3. Chapter 3

Turns out, we didn't have much "fray" to jump into.

The sight that greeted us was a dark, cramped hotel room filled by a bed, a side-table, and a dresser opposite, topped with an old box telly. In the bed was the thirty-year-old woman we'd seen down at the marina with the mismatched buttons and glazed look in her eyes. At this point, when we kicked open the door, she sat bolt-upright with a shriek. At the end of the bed stood the supervisor and the agent, both of them holding big pistols that looked almost like sawed-off shotguns. And in between them, hovering above the bed was a ghostly Otherlight, and in the center of it, my sister, Mary.

I faltered, hand on my rapier. Both Lockwood and George gasped. Well, Lockwood gasped anyway. Gorge made a strangled gurgling noise deep in his throat. They were both looking at the ghost.

 _Stay away from her._

The voice came again, and the Otherlight flared with each syllable, even though Mary's mouth didn't move, but it shook me out of my stupor. The voice was a man's.

"Lockwood," I said. My voice croaked, I swallowed. "Who do you see?"

Beside me, he blinked forcefully and his eyes cleared. "It's not possible," he said in a steel-edged voice. He drew his rapier from its sheath with a metallic _shhhink_.

Before we could do anything else, the ghost lunged at the agent and the superior. One of the pistols went off, and the room burst bright for an instant with muzzle flash. There was a great bang and a sound like salt and pepper flying everywhere. The Otherlight vanished in an instant. Then came the rattling of silver netting and another shriek from the bed. Suddenly, the light came on. George was at the switch. The woman was caught in the silver net like a fish. She flopped around, waving her arms wildly. There were a few tiny, smoldering holes in her bedsheets and clothes.

The agent gave her a swift, solid slap to the side of the face which not only gave off the sound of hand-against-cheek, but also the rattle of the silver net. "Calm down!" she demanded. The woman stopped flailing and sat quite still, except for the trembling in her lower lip. "Hand over the ring."

"What?" the woman stammered, peering out between the chainlink.

The supervisor came to the side of bed and said in a much gentler tone, "Your fiancée's ring. His spirit is still attached to it. You probably didn't see it, but he was hovering over your bed just a moment ago."

"He was?" she breathed dazedly, almost hopefully.

"He could've killed you," the agent piped up, using overly-expressive gestures. "One touch, and **BLOOP!** You puff up like a blue blowfish—goner."

The supervisor gave the agent a look and then sighed. At that moment, she noticed the three of us standing in the narrow doorway. She stared for a moment, we stared back. "Um... Hi," she said.

* * *

Eventually, the woman handed over her fiancée's ring, which she had been wearing around her neck on a chain since he'd died tragically right before their wedding. They'd planned a trip to London for the honeymoon (big Harry Potter fans), and after his death, she decided to take it anyway to get her mind off everything. On the plane ride, the handsy old man sitting next to her had been stricken with a sudden heart attack. Turns out, her fiancée had been following her, and in some sick way, protecting her since his death.

We were all gathered back at Portland Row, including the American supervisor and agent whose names were respectively, Maddie and Rochelle. Lockwood had graciously insisted they join us for midnight teas and cakes. The night cab had dropped us off about thirty minutes beforehand, and the Americans had just finished explaining that they'd been tracking the ghost since Ohio.

"We classified it as a Trickster ghost," Maddie said.

"Trickster?" I asked.

"It disguises itself as someone you know. Rochelle saw her dog, I saw our mom. To be honest though, my Listening is better than my Sight."

Two questions were raised at once.

George said, "Pardon me, _you_ saw?"

I said, _"Our_ mom?"

"We're sisters," Rochelle said, matter of factly. She propped her elbow on the Thinking Cloth. A longish lock of bangs fell across her glasses. She flicked it away with a finger, nail bitten to the quick.

"Congratulations," George said. "But let's get back to you seeing this Trickster ghost." His eyes lit up with interest and equal amounts of suspicion, giving shape to his formless face. There was a new hard set to his jaw. He leaned forward. "How old are you?"

"Twenty," Maddie said.

"Impossible," George said. "Your psychic powers should've faded years ago! I would _love_ to perform some experiments on you."

Maddie flushed. Rochelle banged a fist on the tabletop and jabbed a finger at George. "Lobotomy," she said.

We all sat in silence for a minute because none of us were quite sure what she meant, but it sounded threatening. Finally, Lockwood cleared his throat awkwardly. "These pistols of yours?" he said.

"Right." Maddie pulled hers out of her duffle-bag, which she had sitting on the chair next to her, and set it on the table in between the teapot and plate of danishes, which George was slowly demolishing. Like I described before, they looked a lot like sawed-off shotguns, but in the bright kitchen lights, I could make out much more detail. The handle was wood with a crosshatch design carved into the dark-stained surface. The body of the gun was metal, probably iron. It looked very heavy. With a sizable, longish barrel and a spinning cylinder, it was fit for six bullets.

"You load it with these," Maddie said and showed a handful of bullets that looked like miniature shotgun shells, down to the red casing. "They're blanks," she said, "and even more blank than your average blanks. The canister is filled with iron grains."

"You Americans and your guns," George said, sipping his tea imperiously.

"You British and your swords," Rochelle said. She downed her tea in one gulp and set the cup back on the table with a thunk.

They glared daggers at each other for a minute and then George pointed at the silver net wrapped heap on the table, wherein the ring lay inert and silent. We had wanted to take it to the furnaces tomorrow, but Rochelle and Maddie needed to take it back to their agent's guild back home in order to get paid. We had finally caved in, despite the risk of transporting a Source between continents.

"That ghost you call a Trickster," George said. "I think it's a Fetch. Everything fits. Lucy seeing her sister, me seeing my mum, Lockwood seeing... Whatever it is that he saw. Fetch's usually appear as someone the onlooker knows, but what confuses me is they're usually classified as Type Twos, but Lucy and you"—he pointed at Maddie—"both clearly heard it speak. So, was this a Type Three? Could you communicate with it?"

"Type Three's are pretty common," Rochelle said. Lockwood offered her more tea, but she declined and asked if he had Coke instead. He gave a regretful shake of the head.

"Common?" I said and almost blurted out, "But we've got one in a jar right now, and it's the only one I've ever seen", but I held my tongue.

"Yeah, we get 'em all the time," Rochelle said. "You guys don't?"

"They're extremely uncommon," Lockwood said, "and there are even fewer records of agents communicating with them." His eyes shifted to me for a split second.

"Huh, weird," Rochelle said. "I guess America just has cooler ghosts than you." Maddie twitched. There was a thud and Rochelle exclaimed, "Ow!" and rubbed her shin under the table. "Why'd you hit me?" she interrogated her sister, glaring over at her, blue eyes sharp and mildly irritated. Strangely enough though, not really mad, almost as though this happened often and it was just a minor inconvenience.

"I didn't hit you," Maddie said passively, shrugging and taking a long sip from her mug.

George looked on with his regular blank expression. "Pretty sure you did."

Rochelle made a gesture to him. "Thank you, fatty!" She corrected herself. "George. I meant George."

Lockwood stood up and clapped his hands together before Maddie could snap at her younger sister. "Well, I think it's time we turned in!" he said. "You two are welcome to spend the night, we have plenty room."


End file.
